


Divina Sanguis

by AskAStupidQuestion



Series: Roma [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: (to some extent), Alternate Universe - Ancient Rome, Alternate Universe - Gladiators, Alternate Universe - Historical, Canon-Typical Violence, First Meetings, Gladiators, Hair Brushing, Hero Worship, Historical Inaccuracy, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Massage, Nudity, Pining, Slow Burn, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-24
Updated: 2018-03-24
Packaged: 2019-04-07 10:19:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14078766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AskAStupidQuestion/pseuds/AskAStupidQuestion
Summary: Will is a new gladiator after deserting the army but almost gets himself killed each time he goes in the ring. Luckily Hannibal is there to take Will under his arm.





	Divina Sanguis

**Author's Note:**

> Currently unedited because I was too damn impatient I wanted to POST. But not to fear I will be posting the edited version as soon as it's done! Also I apologise because I'm not sure what colour Hannibal's eyes are and I'm pretty sure I describe them differently every time I write him
> 
> Hopefully you're more impressed than my cat was...

_-Divine Blood_

Metal clashes against metal as a large sword almost swings his arm off but Will brings up his trident in time to block the attack. Sparks burn at their hands as the two gladiators press together like hands in prayer. Will pushes into the iron with all his weight, feet scraping at the dirt beneath him in effort. There’s sweat down both their foreheads from the midday sun that beats down, as oppressive as the jeering crowd around them. He feels the air knocked from his lungs as Will is suddenly kicked square in the chest. He flings his elbows out to break his fall but instead jars the bone so that they ache with pain and lands, rasping for breath around his bloody mouth. His only weapon clatters away from Will’s outstretched hand. Blocking the harsh light above him, the competitor wastes no time in pinning Will to the floor, stepping on his heaving lungs with thick boots. He desperately reaches for his trident. The foot grinds into his sternum so hard that Will can almost feel the splinter of bone. His fingertips strain towards his weapon, arms shaking but he’s too obvious. His opponent slams his other foot onto his upturned hand and this time the crack is so loud he’s sure even the emperor on his high throne must have heard it. He screams as loud as he can but it’s nothing compared to the chanting surrounding them that only grows stronger with his demise. The cold tip of a sword scratches against Will’s neck. If he breathes again it will surely draw blood. The giant of a man above him, bald and tan, looks gleeful. Will wonders for a moment if he will kill him even without the final vote. There’s nothing to stop the man, not when they’re alone on the ground of an arena as massive as this. They both pause with the same thought. But the man doesn’t risk a punishment- he looks up again to the stone throne where the emperor sits, smiling. The emperor sticks his thumb out and immediately there’s another uproar with the chorus of their victor’s name. Will silently pleads he will at least be granted to live.

The emperor watches the two of them, frozen in motion without his permission to continue. With every second the shouts get more defiant, voices more strained. His thumb begins to turn. Will watches with morbid anticipation until finally the decision is made. His thumb points directly to the sky and the Gods above them. The sword slowly draws away from Will’s neck but not before it can make a nick at the base of his chin: a gift from his begrudging opponent. Will finally breathes out- he’s allowed to live, albeit bloody and bruised, at least till his next match. Perhaps it will only be until tomorrow, or worse he’ll get called on for one of the private evening entertainment matches but for now, he lives.

It’s the slave owners, not the healers, that always arrive first on scene. The victor is dragged away with a crown of laurel balanced on their head, usually off to clean and then some sort of meeting with their sponsors but Will never really knows where they head, mostly because he’s never been the one wearing the crown, much less have people _pay_ to both train him and see him more in the amphitheatre. Instead, his own master marches on with a small army of apprentices. Will has to be helped to his feet and once or twice has been carried back to their cells. Once out of the sun and hidden in the warren of stone work under the amphitheatre the apprentices strip Will of his pitiful armour. There’s a small pool that he bathes in quickly but his wounds sting too greatly and the apprentices take pity and haul him out still sopping wet, promptly shackling his feet. As if he had any chance of running. They don’t help wash or dry him, but sit there mainly as guards to keep him from running but sometimes they are training healers and he’s grateful for them above everything. Today there’s no healers but he washes and dries whilst his limbs still feel numb and worships Mars that when he regains feeling in his arms it won’t be too bad as it has been before. The stone is cold and unforgiving on his feet as they traipse back to the cells. Will collapses on the nearest cot once he’s inside and doesn’t open his eyes again till the echoing of footsteps fade to nothing. Luckily the shared cell is empty for now and there’s enough light streaming through the high corners to almost be pleasant. The cot is scratchy against his bare skin, especially where the masters had shaved his chest, but it was a place to lie all the same. He feels himself drift off with exhaustion, eyelids heavy.

They snap open again perhaps an hour later. Keys jangle at the bars as another gladiator joins Will. He looks much broader and still has all his hair unlike Will’s last opponent. It has grey streaks running in it like waves in a river and Will is struck with sudden respect for a man who has lasted so long. There are slight creases around his grey eyes and scars running the length of his arms like ribbons but there are no recent wounds that Will can see.

“Quick victory then?” Will ventures. The man is busy tidying up a cot at the other end of the cell. His armour barely stretches the breadth of his shoulders, polished metal encasing his chest and torso. The fabric of the thin tunic clings to him, far too small worn on such a large man but would probably drown Will in cloth. His forearms are covered with metal bands to shield the flesh, ornate patterns are cast into them as tokens of favour. His biceps are left to the warm air and Will can make out the way the sinuous muscle shifts as the man carries his helmet, the same way his strong legs move to carry him.

“You could say that.” The man replies.

“How so?”

The man’s lips curl into a smile.

“Unfortunately, my opponent was afraid when he saw me- even tried to run to the emperor begging for his life. I was almost offended.”

As he speaks his canines look like they have been sharpened into points.

“Hannibal Lecter.” Will lets out. Everyone knew the notorious gladiator. Will had heard Hannibal had once ripped open the neck of his opponent with his teeth alone and had drank his blood as it poured out. Another time Hannibal had cut off the toes of his competitor and forced them down his victim’s throat before finally running him through. No wonder the crowd loved him.

“A pleasure to meet you.”

Will resisted trying to shuffle away from him. “So, did you get your match?”

“In a way. I speared the man before he could even turn around again.”

Will nodded. There wasn’t much else to say so he turned his back to the man and tried to settle again. Death was nothing new, even in his army days Will had dealt with a number of gruesome killings and after five years he had enough and deserted. It was his own regiment that caught him, sleeping in a cave on a mountainside in the North. He had thought he was safe, and even when he was found they might take pity. In a small way they did- he would have been crucified otherwise. But instead he was piled on to the next slave cart back to Rome and started life here. Unfortunately, he still hadn’t gotten any better at it.

“If you keep lying that way your wrist will be irreparable.”

Will barely hears the words through his haziness but grunts in acknowledgement, unmoving. His wrist was curled around him so that his head rested in the palm of his hand. Subconsciously he knew from the angle his arm was at he shouldn’t be able to feel his damp curls against his calloused finger tips but he’s past the point of caring and tries to settle back into sleep. Let Hannibal run him through like an opponent if he wished but the exhaustion was too much.

He could hear the shuffling movements from across the cell. Chains scraped across the granite gratingly. It was hard to ignore the iron around his own ankles but Will tried to keep as still as possible.

The heavy clunking got slowly closer, Will curling into himself in reflex. His breathing is loud and almost as heavy in the eerily quiet room. All the cells are designed so no one on the surface would hear screams if something went wrong- double layers of stone blocks and long coiling stairs to the top. Instinctively, there’s nothing obvious Hannibal could use to kill him, but Will doesn’t doubt he could if the man really wanted to. The shackles- strangulation maybe, the sheets- smothering the breath out of him, although that doesn’t seem his style, Gods, maybe his own hands. He can imagine it, the way they would tighten around his throat, still only just recovering from the morning. All he would have to do is rip open the existing wounds and leave Will to bleed into the cot below him. The masters wouldn’t suspect Hannibal the same way they wouldn’t care if a prized chariot horse trampled a foal to death. Maybe they’d thank Hannibal. He tries to swallow but his throat is too dry. He scolds himself for being so callous with him earlier, as if that was a good idea.

Will can feel the presence of the man behind him as he slowly moves. If Will hadn’t already seen him he would have guessed Hannibal is twice as large from the way he carries himself about the cell slowly. He was right about Will’s wrist- sharps spikes of pain slicing into the bone each time he breathes, the movement agitating him. He focuses on the specks of dust that float around the room instead, steadfastly ignoring his wrist and Hannibal and the rest of the dismal setting around him. The specks float down from the top of the high ceiling where shards of light burst in.

He gasps when he feels a broad hand touch his bare back and immediately cries out from the searing pain in his arm where the sudden expansion of his lungs jolted his wrist.

The other hand comes up to his shoulder, quickly rolling him over on his back.

“Look at me.”

Will stares up at him, silent. He doesn’t know what to say so clenches his jaw in case something stupid slips out. He sees how Hannibal’s eyes track the motion of tensing muscle in his neck. Hannibal’s hands reach for his but Will frowns in confusion, trying to pull away but instead Hannibal just snatches his wrist back from the cot and holds it closely. He lets out a small shout as the pain quickly returns but Hannibal simply holds him still below. Hannibal tilts his head as if inspecting it, working over the bone with his thumbs, smoothing at Will’s skin. He grits his teeth but allows Hannibal to rub the pain away.

“What is your name, boy?”

“Will.”

“Will,” Hannibal begins, testing the name on his tongue, “It appears the muscle in your wrist has snapped, as has the connection to your third and fourth finger which would explain why you’re having trouble moving from your position. Luckily the fates have allowed the bone to stay strong, you should thank your gods.”

Will let the information wash over him. Was he still going to be able to fight? Or even hold a sword?

“How do you know all this?” He asked instead, sitting up with interest.

“Before the war my tribe would often practise healing- it was one of our sacred arts. The rest of our small nation looked to us as leaders. It’s one of the first things we teach our children and a skill we carry all our lives. I must admit I’ve been reluctant to use it here though.”

Will nodded. Gladiators don’t make many friends amongst themselves when they know they’ll only be pitted against each other the next day. A weakness is anybody could be exploited if the moment came. Will didn’t blame Hannibal for keeping the weakness open. Along with his physique, his healing skills must’ve been the secret to Hannibal’s long reign, a deadly combination.

“You’ll need weeks to recover, a maximum of two months given good rest and the right treatment.” Will had enough respect to restrain from snorting but it was difficult to take the words without a pinch of salt. Rest wasn’t really heard of around here, let alone the privilege of treatment. Hannibal swiftly takes advantage of Wil’s wrist still clasped in Hannibal’s hands and rubs soothing circles up his forearm. “Lucius will have to take you off the private event entertainment at least.” It takes Will a second to register that he’s referring to the master of the gladiators.

“It’s unlike him to reschedule anything, let alone for injury.”

The pressure on his wrist increases, tightening Will’s skin. It’s a warm afternoon but his neck prickles into goose bumps when Hannibal’s eyes meet his. They’re greener than anything he’s laid eyes on and reminds Will of open farm fields from far away. They still shine brightly like Hannibal never left home.

“I will talk to him.”

“You think he’ll listen?”

“I think he’ll do anything to make sure I am in prime condition to fight, whether or not that extends to any leisure activities.” He leaves it open ended.

Will raises an eyebrow, suddenly unsure of himself.

“Am I your leisure activity then?”

“If you want to be.”

His palm moves to his hairline, resting on Will’s forehead for some time. When Hannibal’s suitably satisfied he moves to Will’s hair, stroking in slow rhythms. It’s impossibly gentle. For a trained killer, Hannibal seems soft and elegant in his movements, barely brushing Will’s scalp, entirely focused on his damp curls that are now drying into a brown halo around his head. Will can only feel the touch as his hair sways under Hannibal’s manipulations. If he leans back slightly he could have those large hands soothing against his head but Will remains stock still, trying to resist the temptation. He’s sitting facing Hannibal, just as Hannibal is on the edge of the cot facing him, yet neither of them look. Hannibal simply watches his fingers thread through his hair whilst Will looks at the wall in at the end of the cot and feigns sudden interest in the brickwork. He doesn’t dare look at the gladiator pressed against him and pretends not to be so acutely aware of his own nakedness whilst Hannibal is still in full armour, desperately trying not to think of the stir in his groin.

Hannibal is just brushing past the base of Will’s neck when his inhibitions snap. He keens backwards into his touch desperately, almost bucking him off entirely, whining in his throat when Hannibal removes his hand. He should be ashamed of himself but that doesn’t stop him whimpering when Hannibal cottons on and starts running his fingers through Will’s hair again, this time massaging at his scalp with both hands. The touch is heavenly, it makes him groan with relief.

He sneaks a look at Hannibal who seems utterly content to manipulate the young man beside him like this. He can feel himself burn red in his cheeks from his sudden embarrassment- debasing himself after only a few touches of a man he’s never met. His father would’ve disowned him.

But smug is a good look on Hannibal and his father is long dead so that Will’s not afraid to look Hannibal in the eye as he toys with him. His pupils are dilated, making his eyes seem deep and heady. Hannibal’s lips are parted slightly, like they are about to whisper all the secrets in the world to him, but no sound comes out, only the small smile that carries a regal sense of self-satisfaction. Will can feel his own lips part to match. He darts his tongue out to wet them and all at once Hannibal goes from satisfied to wanting.

“Roll over.” Will barely has the chance to respond himself before Hannibal is manhandling him into position the way he wants him. Hannibal’s hand circle his forearm, careful not to touch his wrist, whilst the other presses into his hipbone until he’s flat on his front with his good arm cupping his head, the other stretched out away from him.

Hannibal begins to knead down his back, pushing out the knots from his shoulders. Will groans in pain but Hannibal only presses harder into him. Sinking into the touch Will knows the callous fingertips should grate his skin but he can’t find it in him to care. Small shudders are pulled from him as they run along his ribcage feeling the bone underneath.

His mind turns Hannibal’s words over again. What would he even do with Will- a training partner, some obscure kind of moral support? He can’t seem to get his head around how any of this would be leisure. The span of his hands can cover the width of Will’s back, feeling helplessly small against the powerful man. He grinds his fingers into Will’s back making him shiver with anticipation as the hands make their way down, deliciously slowly, reminding him of the way _lovers_ \- oh. His mind fills with images of Hannibal, sweating and bloody after a kill and adrenaline still pumping, coming in from the ring breathing still heavy so that Will can clearly imagine the expansion in his lungs. How he would grab at Will and manoeuvre him once they were back in the cells together. The noises that would fill the empty air when they were alone together, how each one of them would be artfully drawn from his lips. The sound of olive oil slicking thick fingers or maybe the feel of them pushing into his mouth to wet them, flattening his tongue to stifle his cries.

There’s a sudden pause.

“You bear the mark of an army deserter.” He traces down Will’s spine to the crux of his back and rests his warm palm against the scarred circle of skin. The skin is raised under Hannibal’s hand and it’s still as blistering red as the day he earned it.

“It’s hideous.” It is, truly. He says it because that’s all he can say. The pattern of criss-crosses lines his lower back and in the centre of the circle a large ‘P’ is stamped for ‘Perfuga’- _defector_. He’s never regretted anything more in his life, even when, a week after his perversion, news had arrived that the entire of his legion had been wiped out by the Gauls. It would’ve been better to die among friends, Will often thinks. Now they’re gone too.

He can’t look at Hannibal after that- buries his face in his hand. Hannibal was a proud man, born the son of a conquered tribe but fought so well that the generals brought him back to Rome. He was enslaved for his fighting but Will was enslaved for not. Hannibal would be ashamed of Will, would’ve been among those advocating for his punishment. His face is burning with shame and guilt as Will realises this. Maybe he could’ve carried on fighting, maybe they would’ve all lived. He could’ve helped his legion; come home a saviour even; sat on the high seats of the amphitheatre and laughed at the pitiful display of violence and blood below. He should be the one watching, safe in his seat, as Hannibal ripped into his next opponent. He could’ve been a sponsor one day once he’d earned enough and then double his profits in the betting pools. He’s not meant to be the one Hannibal is fighting, because Will is painfully aware that one day, sooner or later, it will be his turn to face Hannibal and his turn to be slaughtered. He can picture the look on Hannibal’s face as he does it- the disgust, the _justice_ at killing a coward. Will feels the prick of tears in his eyes moments after he’s actually crying. They slip silently from his eyes onto the cot below leaving sticky trails on his cheeks. Once they start coming he can’t stop the torrent behind them. They stream out of him like water from an estuary with such force he scrunches his eyes tight and shakes his head in his hand.

“They branded me like meat.” He whispers.

He cries again when he feels Hannibal press soft lips to the mark. “I’m a monster for it.” Hannibal turns him so Will is forced to look at his face as he says it. His thumb makes gentle circles on Will’s cheek, flushed red from crying.

Hannibal wants to kiss each tear as they roll from his eyes. Will’s eyelashes flutter trying to push them away but Hannibal uses his thumb instead to stroke at them so they spill down his neck or to his ears. He should admonish Will for being so self-deprecating but instead he’s too angry at the legions and at the masters for ever letting him believe he was less than beautiful.”

“Will, you are the most human person I’ve met down here. I fed a man his own toes and then cut open his throat so they spilt out of his neck like birds in a pie.”

“You might call that a talent.” Will chokes out, his nose filled with snot.

“Do you?” He pauses and neither of them speak for a moment.

“There’s an art to surviving, just like everything else. You just seem to be better in our circumstances than most. The people, they love you. I know every time you fight in the ring because the roar is so loud I can hear it no matter if I’m down here or on the other side of the city to train. You have them on a chain almost the same way you are. If anything, that is the real talent of a gladiator.” Will concluded heavily.

“You underestimate yourself Will. You can see in their eyes how much they love to feast upon you.”

“They want the _lions_ to feast upon me.” He shakes his head. How could Hannibal not see this? How could he not realise that Will was only ever going to be a warm up act for the big fighters, only to be tossed aside once the crowd realised how shit he was at his job. He’d be killed for it, and by someone down here he knew too.

“Our blood thirsty crowd prefers seeing beautiful things ruined.”

Will’s heart clenches at the words but admonishes himself for reading too much into the words. Neither Hannibal, nor anybody else would see him as anything more than his crimes.

“And what about you Hannibal?”

“I prefer to ruin them myself.”

The circles on his cheek draw wider, slower. His fingertip catches on Will’s lips but he makes no move to remove it, just letting it rest there. The warmth of the room has grown thick and heady around them; Will struggles to keep his breathing steady. He strokes over the plush pink once more so that Will lets his lips part in silent prayer. He can almost make out his own reflection is the darkness of Hannibal’s lidded eyes, they’re so close. His own eyes close in tandem and, with a boldness he never knew he had, rushed his head to meet Hannibal’s, sealing their lips together.

Hannibal kisses back with renewed fervour, teeth almost colliding with his own. It’s rough, passionate, but his lips are soft and pliant under Hannibal’s which riles him up further and lets out a growl as he climbs on top of Will. He feels the weight of Hannibal above him just enough to not crush him. Will’s vaguely aware he’s trapped but it’s nothing to do with why his heart is beating so fast in his throat.

“Are you going to ruin me?” He whispers into the room. He keeps his eyes shut, not daring to open them.

“As much as I can.”


End file.
